Unmeasured words
by MianaRazta
Summary: Insulting Sally is actually more satisfying than he could possibly know.


Notes: 

The icon I used is not mine, I do not remember where I took it from, but if you do tell me so I can credit the brilliant person who did it. Also Sherlock obviously does not belong to me, none of the characters do.

This is my very first Sherlock fic, so don't expect greatness, okay?

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"Pervert…" Donnovan scoffed disdainfully at Sherlock as he passed by her. Lestrade looked at her but she avoided his eyes, clearly aware that she shouldn't have said that. Sherlock rolled his eyes at her.

"How childish, Sally."

He had expected that kind of response from her. He had made a usual remark about her rather dubious relationship with Anderson. He had intended to set that look on her face. The first and hurt one, not the disgust and contempt she seemed to wear everywhere. The one she always got before she would compose herself and remember she couldn't actually hit him. The anger and outrage that flashed in her eyes for brief seconds, every time he mentioned Anderson's wife. He knew that if he were John, he would probably pity her. She had fallen for what was probably one of the most unenlightened men in the UK. If she kept fooling herself that Anderson was going to leave his wife for her, than she was no better than that awful man. But Sherlock was not John, therefore he did not pity her.

"You know Freak, I keep asking myself if you just make those things up or you simply spy on me every night like the little creep you are." Sherlock sensed John tensing up by his side. He knew John hated when the people from the Yard treated him like that and how he always seemed to think that protecting Sherlock was his all time job. He looked at Sally's smug face and couldn't help noticing Anderson had lifted his head, suddenly interested in the conversation. He took a step in Donnovan's direction entering her personal space. Her eyelids fluttered, already expecting his comeback. His voice served her cold and deadly.

"When is it, Donnovan, that you will understand that I am not your stalker and that in fact I have absolutely no interest in you? There isn't a single thing about your appearance or personality that could ever attract me! Unless you suddenly grew a dick, I can't see a single way you could even begin to appeal me! And even then not even close! So if you please, piss off!"

He heard several gasps around him and took in Sally's shocked expression. That wasn't what he was expecting. And Sally was usually so predictable. There was still a flicker of anger behind her eyes but the wide eyes and mouth dominated her face, not hurt and fury. He looked around and saw Sally's expression mirrored in their faces. John looked completely dumbfounded. What had he said that could be that surprising?

_Doesn't matter. The case._ He thought, waving his hand over his head trying to shoo those thoughts away. _The case matters._

He ignored their looks and focused on the corpse of an old man lying with his eyes pointed to the ceiling. He crouched down to get a closer look. Something wasn't right with the entry wound. It was wider than it should be if it was caused by the 22mm that lay next to the body. Which meant, that was not the murder weapon. A decoy. The weapon wasn't even related. He trailed his gloved fingers on the surface of the man's forehead. Entry wound clean, right through. The man had no time to react or to dodge the bullet, otherwise the trajectory would be different. He looked up.

"John? Second opinion?" He noticed nobody had moved since he'd lowered himself to the victim a minute ago. John seemed to break from the spell that kept him immobilized and crouched mimicking Sherlock's position. John's report added nothing to his conclusions, so he turned to Lestrade, who just shook his head trying to focus on him.

"Victim's about 67 years old. Divorced, no kids. He moved to the city to have a fresh start and ended up getting involved with the wrong people. The actual murder weapon can probably be found in the dumpster around the corner. Not a suicide, in spite of the thorough effort of the killers put into making it look like one" He finished with sarcasm.

"Killers?" Lestrade interrupted emphasizing the s.

"Yes, killers. As in more than one, two actually, one in his mid-thirties and the other in his fifties." He told Lestrade all he had gathered about the killers the fastest he could and then turned to John "I collected every piece of information I could, there's nothing we can do here, you coming John?"

John propped himself from the wall and trotted after Sherlock, trying to keep up with the consulting detective as he dashed out of the door. At least he had the decency of giving him a heads-up. The doctor, more often than he would like to admit, often found himself alone as his friend dashed out the door before he noticed and when he eventually noticed, he was long gone.

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The ride home was tense and Sherlock couldn't quite understand why. He tried to make eye contact with John but the one time he did, John quickly adverted his eyes and blushed. Why was John blushing? What was he thinking? Was he embarrassed? He was only blushing when Sherlock caught his eyes. Did he think Sherlock knew what he was thinking about? He had complained about it several times, _that's not fair, you always read my mind I can't keep secrets from you, _he had said once. Well, this was an opportunity to use that, if John thought Sherlock knew what was on his mind, maybe he could make John talk. But how?

"John, could you be less obvious?" he tried. John quickly turned his head to Sherlock, wary. Their eyes met, and John narrowed his eyes for a second and then lowered them to his hands, looking guilty.

"You can always tell, can't you Sherlock?" He was even pinker now. Sherlock lifted one of his eyebrows at John, trying to convey '_obviously, John'_ as much as he could. John lifted his eyes from his hands and chuckled at Sherlock's expression. What was he thinking now? "If I do it will you be mad at me?"

What was he talking about? What did he think Sherlock would be mad about? Good heavens, he hated not knowing! "Why would I be mad, John?"

John's face brightened up with hope and a hint of a smile turned up on his mouth. What had he given John permission to do? What was John going to do?

John just lifted one hand in his direction, for a moment he thought John was going to hit him, but the hand only touched his cheek lightly. He looked from John's hand to John's face trying to figure out what John was doing. When had he come so close? Isn't he a bit too close? Suddenly all he could feel was a light pressure on his lips and a warm feeling running through his spine to his whole body. Was John kissing him? He was! What-

And then John's tongue scraped his lower lip and all his thoughts were replaced by complete blankness and he gave in to the sensation of having those rough lips pressed and moving against his own. He hadn't realized he had closed his eyes until John broke the kiss and made a little noise that made him open them and he found himself staring into John's deep blue eyes.

"Guess you were telling the truth." He said "Girlfriends are really not your area, are they?" He smiled like a fool and Sherlock found himself grinning at him as well, recognizing the reference to that night at Angelo's.

"What brought this oh-?" He suddenly remembered what _exactly_ he had told Donnovan and felt his cheeks blushing. John chuckled. He hadn't meant to be so candid but there was no way he regretted it now. He closed the distance between his lips and John's once again, with a smirk on his face, making a note to himself to remember thanking Sally the next day.


End file.
